


Hate Parallelograms and Other Theories of Attraction

by mightbewriting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Football | Soccer, Hate Parallelograms with Love Corners, I'm making it a thing, M/M, it's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting
Summary: “A hate parallelogram,” Oliver says, slow over the long syllables, pronunciation sloshed by beer. Maybe this was actually his fifth drink? Hard to say. “Do you even know what a parallelogram is?”“Course I do,” Marcus says. A pause. A gulp of beer. “It has four sides.”“And I suspect they’re parallel.”“My point,” Marcus says, blowing out a huge breath before shoveling a handful of crisps into his mouth, speaking right through them. “Is that Cho hates me. Hates me more than—I don’t know, someone who really hates someone else—”“—Eloquent—”
Relationships: Cho Chang/Marcus Flint, Draco Malfoy/Oliver Wood
Comments: 32
Kudos: 88





	Hate Parallelograms and Other Theories of Attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [provocative_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/gifts).



> wishing a very happy birthday to provocative_envy! this fic is her gift and therefore her fault, blame her.
> 
> from a spectacular list of potential pairings and scenarios, i chose "whatever the opposite of a love triangle is," and took draco, oliver, marcus, and cho as my hostages for this ridiculous adventure. i may have also tried to cram in several other things from the list just for funsies.
> 
> without further ado, please enjoy!

“It’s like, the opposite of a love triangle.”

“And what would that be?” Oliver asks, deep into his third—fourth?—stout of the evening. Heavy, strong beer is his consolation for the spectacular loss he has suffered this day.

Marcus grunts into his own drink, “I don’t fucking know—like a—hate parallelogram. Or something.”

Oliver leans against the booth, brows raised as he stares at his friend and co-captain. Marcus still has grass in his hair from their football match and, despite the table between them, Oliver is having trouble ignoring the distinct stench of sweat clouding around them. They were so furious over their loss that it was straight to the pub for the two of them, showers and hygiene be damned. 

“A hate parallelogram,” Oliver says, slow over the long syllables, pronunciation sloshed by beer. Maybe this was actually his fifth drink? Hard to say. “Do you even know what a parallelogram is?”

“Course I do,” Marcus says. A pause. A gulp of beer. “It has four sides.”

“And I suspect they’re parallel.”

“My point,” Marcus says, blowing out a huge breath before shoveling a handful of crisps into his mouth, speaking right through them. “Is that Cho hates me. Hates me more than—I don’t know, someone who really hates someone else—”

“—Eloquent—”

“—and I hate Malfoy because he’s the worst fucking forward—”

“—and by that, you mean best—”

“—in the league. And  _ he  _ hates  _ you _ because you’re an ace goalkeeper. And you can’t stand Cho because you’re an idiot with no eyes or taste.”

“Okay first: Chang is miserable. She’s so fucking competitive it takes all the fun out of our rec league. Though, all in all, that’s not a terrible comparison. Got a little messy in the middle there and I’m still not convinced you know what a parallelogram is, but you’re not wrong.”

Oliver takes another sip of his beer, annoyed to find it empty, swallowing back the dregs of warm foam at the bottom. He runs his finger through the condensation pooling on the surface of the table.

“You only hate that she’s competitive because she’s even more competitive than you. And apparently that’s a crime.” Marcus downs the rest of his beer and then slides the mug towards the end of the table—almost over the edge. “Then there’s the fact that you want to fuck Malfoy,” he continues entirely out of nowhere. Frankly, it’s a little uncalled for.

“Not as badly as you want to fuck Chang.”

Marcus snaps a crisp in half, dropping the pieces on the table. 

“That’s fair. But, see? It’s a hate parallelogram with a—love corner? Corners?”

“Love corners,” Oliver repeats, something like a question inside a statement shrouded with disbelief. 

He closes his eyes as Marcus pries the empty glass from his fingers, sliding it towards the end of the table—too far this time—where it skids to a stop dangerously close to the edge. Oliver holds his breath for a moment, afraid it might tip over. He has to throw a crisp at Marcus’s face to stop his already extending hand.

“Do you have  _ any _ impulse control? You can’t just knock mugs off tables because you’re annoyed Chang doesn’t want to sleep with you.”

“ _ You _ can’t insist on doubling up our practices just because Malfoy got one goal past you,” Marcus rebuts, and then almost as an afterthought, “And also because you’re annoyed he doesn’t want to sleep with you.”

Stalemate. Oliver wants another beer. His fifth? Sixth? Who the fuck knows. Honestly, who the fuck cares? Marcus, in all his blunt glory, isn’t exactly wrong. 

“Well,” Oliver finally says, wishing the bar wasn’t so far away, and that the bartender had tele—what is it? The one where someone hears your thoughts—the bartender needs that so she knows how desperately Oliver needs another drink. “What are we going to do about our hate parallelogram and its love corners?”

“Do about it?” Marcus asks through a mouthful of crisps.

“Step one should be chewing with your mouth closed if you ever want Chang to see you as more than a boorish midfielder who touched her tits that one time—wait, strike that. Step one was the expensive orthodontia, so at least you have that going for you. You still touched her tits, though.”

Marcus grumbles something as he swallows. He sets his drink down and with better enunciation says, “I told you that was an accident—”

“Right, yes. You were  _ just trying to get the grass off her. _ After you tripped her. I had to hold Draco back.”

Marcus snorts, “Like that was such a burden for you.”

“Not the point.”

“You think they’re the jealous type?” Marcus asks. He has the salt shaker now, balancing it on his forefinger like he’s divining the amount of salt left inside by the way its weight is distributed and balanced. 

“Draco and Chang? I don’t know.”

“Well what if we”—Marcus gestures between them—“tried to make them jealous.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. That sounds like a made-up thing to justify doing something stupid.”

“Well—yes. And you’re the one who wanted a solution for our parallelogram,” Marcus stumbles over the word; he picked a complicated shape to say and it’s caught up to him and his alcohol-laden tongue. Square would have been easier to say, less convoluted, too. And his point still would have stood.

“How would we make them jealous?” Oliver asks despite himself. He can feel the itch to win, desperate to find a solution to his problem.

If Draco Malfoy not being interested in him could be considered a problem, that is.

Oliver considers it a problem.

A cosmically huge problem.

For the man’s cosmically ridiculous name.

Marcus eyes the mugs at the edge of the table as he thinks, forcing Oliver to pull them back towards the center, lest they wind up shattered on the floor and the two of them end up kicked out of the pub—again. 

“We could pretend  _ we’re _ dating.”

The disgust is embarrassingly visceral; Oliver almost feels bad about it.

“Marcus. You’re my best mate. But I would  _ never _ date you. Or someone like you. You’re all”—a vague gesture—”bulky. And brunet. And straight. No one would believe it.”

But Marcus doesn’t look like he’s heard a single word Oliver just said. Instead, he has his gaze fixed on the pub’s entrance. Oliver follows his line of sight, breath stuttering at the perfect white-blond hair that practically shines in the dim lights and smoke hazed room. 

Chang must be there, too. But Oliver doesn’t notice. His entire focus is lost on the fascinating transition on Draco’s face from smooth planes on his forehead and cheeks to sharp lines defining his nose, jaw, and chin. He’s distinguished. Really fucking pretty. And nothing like Marcus, who has inexplicably risen from his seat, shoving himself into Oliver’s side of the booth while shouting for Chang and Draco to join them. 

“Marcus you’re drunk and you smell.”

“Same to you on both fronts, mate. We’re testing my theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s barely an idea. I don’t even think—”

But Draco and Chang are standing in front of the booth now. Marcus slings an arm over Oliver’s shoulder and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to cringe. 

Oliver glances down to where Draco and Cho are holding hands.

Well, that fucking sucks. 

—

Cho doesn’t look up from her phone until they’re standing in front of the pub. When she does, Draco knows he’s done for. She narrows her eyes at him as she clicks the button on the side of her screen to send the device to sleep, finally disconnected from the play by play she’s been frantically typing into her notes app during the walk from the match to the pub.

“Are you pouting?” she asks, tone sharp and accusatory as she ducks and twists, craning to get a closer look at his face.

Draco shifts, turning his face away as he runs a hand through his damp hair.

He scoffs, “Ask a better question.” It was an entirely unconvincing attempt at redirection.

“You got the game-winning goal today. You are not allowed to be in a bad mood.”

“Whatever you say, Chang.”

He reaches for the door, ready to drink himself into—or maybe out of—his state of ambivalence, but falters when Cho swats at his hand.

“Is this because of Wood?” Ah, a better question.

He rolls his eyes and tries to look unaffected, disinterested, utterly above her mediocre attempts at psychoanalysis. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t let him answer.

“Because if he’s so competitive that you playing the game against him is enough to make him hate you, he doesn’t deserve you and you know it.”

Draco sighs. “I’m not pouting,” he says, failing to sound confident in that statement. “And I’m not thinking about throwing away any goals just to get on his good side, if that’s your worry.”

He sees her lips twitch, a tiny acknowledgement. 

Draco can’t help but laugh. “I knew that kind, supportive persona from you felt off.”

“I’m supportive,” she says. “However, I also like to win. But in a healthy way. Not like Wood, who hates you for being good at the game.”

“Or Flint who hates you for no reason,” Draco adds, regretting it when he sees her face fall.

“Yes, well. At least we don’t play them for another couple of weeks. We’re a mess, aren’t we? Wood hates you, you hate Marcus—”

“—He tripped you for no reason—”

“—Marcus hates me—”

“—He’s a basically a wild animal, who knows if he’s house-trained—”

“—And I really can’t stand Wood.”

“That part makes no sense, honestly. The two of you are competitive about being competitive. It’s staggering how similar you are.”

“Are you saying you’d be interested in me if you were straight?” she asks with a grin. It feels forced, like she’s trying to cheer him up. He decides to let her, even if he refuses to admit he’s been pouting.

He shrugs a non-answer and reaches for the door again. This time, he pauses because of what he sees through the warped, paneled glass on either side of the frame.

The groan escapes him before he can stop it.

“Flint and Oliver are in there,” he says, knowing she’ll ask.

She cranes to get a look, “You mean Marcus and Wood?”

“Whatever your bias tells you to call them.”

“They look—a little drunk,” she says.

“I was going to go with filthy. Doesn’t look like they hit the showers after the match.”

“Wood  _ is _ a bit of a sore loser,” Cho says, turning back to Draco.

He raises a brow at her, waiting—requiring—that she acknowledge her hypocrisy. 

She’s damn stubborn, too. Just raises a brow back at him.

“Are you going to make me remind you of the number of extra laps you made us do last time we lost to them?”

“Our endurance wasn’t up to snuff.” She crosses her arms, all indignation and righteousness. “We only lost because we got  _ tired _ . We needed a better conditioning routine.”

“We’re still getting a drink, right? We’re not going to let them keep us from celebrating, are we?”

“So you’re past pouting and now you’re ready to celebrate with me?”

Draco snorts and opens the door, instantly hit with a haze of smoke and humidity and hops. His shoes stick to the floor, making a tacky noise he can feel more than hear as he takes a couple of steps inside, Cho at his heels. 

He stops when he makes eye contact with Flint.

Cho must have done the same because he hears her suck in a breath.

“He might still be sweaty but—I mean,  _ look _ at him.”

“Looking. And I don’t get it.”

Cho makes an exasperated sound, jabbing a knuckle into Draco’s side.

“That’s just because you like your men Scottish and sore losers.”

“I like them fit and dedicated to their sport. You, however, like yours burly and—what other qualities does Flint have?”

“He had big—nice, hands.”

“Oh, well in that case.”

“And he funds like, half the league. Donates all sorts of money to maintain the fields and provide gear.”

“Because he wants to play in it, Chang. I’d hardly call the guy a philanthropist. He can’t play if we can’t afford the upkeep.”

“I don’t see you throwing all  _ your _ old money at the league.” If she were anyone else he might consider decking her because, honestly, that was a low blow. But this is Chang and she doesn’t hold back, ever. He’s used to it.

She blinks, still lobbing a judgey fucking stare at him. A look crosses her face that’s not dissimilar to the one she gets when she’s finally figured out the solution to a tricky play. Or when she thinks she’s outsmarted Wood. Or when she grabs the last chip from the basket they’re supposed to be sharing but that she’s definitely had at least two-thirds of. 

“I bet he gets jealous easily.”

“What do you—”

But she grabs his hand at the exact same time Flint hollers an invitation across the pub for them to join him and Oliver.

Oh, Flint’s  _ definitely _ a few drinks in if he’s willingly subjecting himself to their presence. Draco wonders how much Oliver has had to drink and if alcohol might soften the sharp edges of his dislike. It could be nice to just—chat? Or fuck. Draco would be willing to participate in either endeavor.

“Just go with it,” Cho says in her  _ do not question my strategy _ voice as they approach, hand in hand. Draco watches as Flint switches to sit next to Oliver, presumably to make room for him and Cho.

Then he casually wraps an arm around Oliver’s shoulders.

Well, that fucking sucks.

—

Oliver tries to ignore the awkward shuffling of limbs beneath the table as Chang and Draco slide into the booth. Marcus jumps up, says something about getting more drinks; it’s mostly just a mumble of words as they all stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

He probably has. But he disappears to the bar anyway, leaving Oliver to stare in silence at a man who hates him and a woman who drives him insane. Cho runs her hand up Draco’s bicep and Oliver considers how likely he is to crack a tooth out of envy. 

He drums his fingers against the woodgrain and then sweeps away the cracked crisps Marcus left on the tabletop, irrationally embarrassed at the mess. 

“So—” he tries with no idea where he might go from there.

Marcus drops several shot glasses on the table, shoving them towards the center, clinking against each other. Oliver stares at the liquor, just waiting for one to tip and spill; Marcus is hardly being careful. Briefly, Oliver wonders how he’d managed to carry so many shots at once.

Marcus slides a glass in front of each of them and, without delay, promptly shoots two of his own before dropping back into the booth.

Oliver sighs; he has to keep up. So he takes two for himself and knocks them back. 

He watches Chang and Draco do the same in rapid succession.

They were all idiots. 

Oliver recoils with Marcus leans in, failing to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Christ, Marcus. They’re not buying it,” Oliver says, shoulder jammed painfully against the wall in his attempt to escape.

“How do you know? Did you have any important talks while I was gone?” 

_ Oh no _ . Marcus’s words have really started to blur, lazy and slow, while still weirdly confident, like everything he says is an absolute truth he has the honor of bestowing upon the world.

Draco throws back another shot, shifting away from Cho’s touch.

“Important talks?” Draco asks, sliding his shot glass towards the end of the table. 

Oliver reaches out and scoops it up before it even makes it halfway.

“Not you, too,” he mumbles as Marcus answers the original question.

“About hate para—llelo—grams.” Oliver actually winces over how much trouble Marcus has trying to force the word out. One glance across the table tells him that Chang and Draco have no idea what he means. Which is fair. He’s not exactly making sense.

And then he makes it worse. 

Marcus points to Oliver, then to Draco. A pause. Then he points to himself, and then at Cho.

“Love corners. Or—lines, because of the booth. And parallel. You know, Cho, I’d really like to get parallel with—”

“I think you’ve had enough,” Olive cuts in, sliding the two remaining full shot glasses across the table and away from Marcus’s reach, practically begging with his eyes for Chang and Draco to take them and remove the temptation.

But they both just look confused.

“Love corners—” Draco starts.

“Or lines—” Chang adds.

“No comment on the hate parallelogram?” Oliver is unwilling to unpack Marcus’s failure to keep his drunk mouth shut.

“That part seemed fairly obvious,” Draco said. “You hate me, I hate Flint, Flint hates Cho, Cho hates you.”

“Right,” Oliver says, then—“Wait, no. You have it backwards.  _ You  _ hate  _ me _ . I hate Chang, Chang hates Flint, and Flint hates you.”

“S’not the same thing?” Marcus asks from beside him, elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his hands. If he looked anymore aggressively in love with Chang in that moment, Oliver might have to start worrying about the mechanics of immaculate conception. 

“You don’t hate me?” Draco asks, opposite Oliver.

“No, you’re the one who hates me.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Oh,” Oliver says.

“Oh,” Draco agrees.

Oliver glances to his side to find that Marcus has simply left the table, Chang in tow, headed towards the bar.

“But I thought you hate it when I block your shots,” he says. It sounds like a weak reason. But up until around seventeen seconds ago, it made perfect sense. 

Draco stares at the measly pub snack menu wedged between the wall and the table. It’s laminated, greasy, crooked, and one quick shift from plummeting to the dark underbelly of the pub floor to join the age-old sticky beer residue, rotting chips, and semi-sentient dust bunnies. 

“Well, I thought you hated it when I make my shots,” Draco finally says, eyes still glued to the menu. Oliver wonders if he prefers chips or crisps.

“I’m just competitive,” Oliver shrugs.

Draco laughs. It’s a great laugh. Kind of derisive, but in a way that makes you want to be a part of whatever club he’s in so that you know he’s laughing with you, not at you. It’s an aspirational laugh; Oliver aspires to it.

“You and Cho don’t have a monopoly on wanting to win. I like winning, too.”

Oliver feels a little wobbly when he asks. He thinks it's all the alcohol, but honestly, he’s not so sure.

“So, you don’t hate me? And I don’t hate you?”

“Are those questions or statements?” Draco asks, arching a pale brow.

“Are you and Chang dating?” Oliver asks in one rushed breath. That, he feels confident he can blame on the alcohol. He wants to sink into the booth, under the table. Although, that would put him at eye level with Draco’s crotch and that seems—ill-advised.

“Are you and Flint?”

“Do you ever just—answer a question like a normal person?” Oliver asks just as he realizes there’s a pressure against the side of his leg: insistent, warm. He pushes back. There’s enough give that he knows he hasn’t just accidentally confused a real leg for the leg of the table. Draco’s torso moves too, just enough that Oliver knows the leg touching his is attached to hips that are attached to a torso that he can see, and would very much like to touch. 

“Ask a better question, then,” Draco says.

Oliver suddenly wishes he’d bothered to shower after the match. Because if Draco is saying what he thinks he is—hopes he is—then, well, he supposes they could try taking one together.

His chest is warm, nervous, but thundering with excitement. He asks a better question, the best, in his opinion.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this insanity wouldn't exist without [tumblr](http://mightbewriting.tumblr.com/). come hang out with me there!


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